11,321. RUDIMENTS, pt. 505

RUDIMENTS, pt. 505

(the festival of....lights?)

Oftentimes I get annoyed

by not being able to

communicate well. It

happens very often, like

with the weather : people

will watch weather reports,

listen to broadcasts, fret

over this or that information

they're being told. Even

though it's never correct

anyway and merely

presented as circus and

play. (Everything these

days has turned childish

and infantile). And then

I'll say something like,

'Hey, look! there's a high

sky and a low sky!'

(Meaning that up above

there are two levels of

clouds, low and high,

and the low clouds can

be seen rushing past

the stable, higher, clouds).

All they need do is look

up to appreciate something

really neat, some true, visual

evidence of existence and

being alive. But, no; they'd

rather remain ensconced in

the manipulative and the

controlled drivel that is told

to them  - I guess so they

can buy soaps, insurance,

perfumes, and medicine.

-

There's probably some big,

bullshit, philosophical name

for all this  -  'proto-maleangic

obfusiveness,'  -  but I wouldn't

know it. Schools of thought

by the rabble instead are

presented as disgusting local

progress by eunuchs making up

towns and villages now of

moronic zombies, who then

award the filth and call it the

modern-day. Hoo-Rah!

For something. Drag your

kiddies to church and fix

your face on something too.

-

Slavonic gypsies believed

that a pumpkin kept after

Christmas became a vampire.

Most 19th century vampires

were female. They were once

also allied with the 10th century

Bogomil heresy. I think that's

about where I still am. There

has not been much progress

in the light of things since

then, as I see it, and the

only real response is a

carping laughter. Did you

know that the word 'Brouhaha'

is supposed to be representative

of the Devil's laughter.

Onomonpaeic, it is.

-

The extent of whatever

season is blowing around,

in the same primitive way

as the very thoughts of the

peasantry, can be seen in the

'slavish' devotion to decoration.

Homes and sheds, garages and

porches, cars and lampposts.

Heck, people even decorate

their coats and jackets now.

That's drives me crazy, in the

same manner as does the

paganistic impulse to declare

the celebration of....what?....

most anything? Would you like

cereal on the charter-bus ride

to see the tree, or just red meat

instead; something to gnaw on

while the bus tears through

open Nature wiling away its

time while dying? My own

father, 'God rest his soul,' as

is said, used to decorate the

front of the house as if it was

Mardi Gras on drugs all of

December and beyond. There

were permanent clips on the

house for the early wires

and hangings, 1950's versions

of colored light bulbs the size

of tanks. One light bulb blowing

out (which always happened)

would kill the entire chain

of illumination. It was, could

not ever be, worth it, except

in some fantasy meld of an

obstinate stupidity which

yearly recurred and took

over brain space. One year,

I can recall, something went

foul and, at the front of the

house, one of those larger,

decorative yew bushes or

arbor-vitae things, which

each had been strung with

lights and wires, torched up

like a giant Christmas candle

of fire which had to be put

out quickly and thank goodness

they were home to catch it.

Did that stop him? Not on

your life -  the new and better

version of Christmas Lighting

2.0 quickly replaced it. The

crazy zone of the frivolous

simply expanded and grew.

Praise Jesus! In fact, our

entire block, for one or two

rich years around 1960, became

a true (secular?) festival of

lights; I'd say one or the other

trying to out do one or the other.

Not mangers or Baby Jesus

stuff -  that was lame and

passe already  -  but the idea

of decorative lighting which

would outline or showcase

your holdings. Only later

came all that moving-lights

stuff, LED's, blinking arrays,

etc. This was more just a

very laid-on, non-verbal

display of messaging the

'intention' of goodwill and

cheer. A lot of these family

guys along the block had

gone into another direction,

one my father never took

because his basement was

his upholstery-shop workplace

for side jobs and all. These

guys had all built bars, in

their basements, a few of

them actually very nice.

And all fully-stocked. It

became a sort of 1960-era

seasonal ritual for my father,

usually with me in tow, to

walk the block some and

visit these guys  -  for their

holiday cheer : beers, wine,

booze, pretzels, whatever.

I'd sit around and just watch,

or listen, to the usual male

talk, the sort of drivel that

half-connected itself to

complaints or whines,

or attitudes about work,

wives, politics, neighbors,

cars, TV, or whatever; sex

too, I guessed, but I missed

most of it. Sitting there was

the worst part. The hello,

what a nice boy, how are

junk went away quickly,

then I'd be given a soda or

something and basically be

told to stay there, imbibe,

and shut-up. The walls,

invariably some cheesy

paneling or faked knotty

wood (not pine) would

have the usual boat picture,

or some swimsuit babe and

a boat, or on the boat, and

then there'd be some ridiculous,

out of place gimmicky wreath

or Santa Claus, or something

to fork over the usual, and

expected, 10 cents worth of

seasonal crud. Praise Jesus

again! From whom all

blessings flow! I got then

to see people, men I'd not

otherwise see; not so much

my friends' fathers  -  with

whom apparently my father

did not get along, most of

them, but other men of the

block. Without boys or sons.

Daughters, yeah, but out of

my age group, though they

were still nice. I always did

enjoy that  -  my father had

more unliked people than

liked, so the pickings were

more slim than you'd

imagine. And, too, he went

a lot by nationality. They 
were nice guys, I'd only see 
them, usually, passing in 
their cars, on their daily

work-treks. This gave me
another look. Like this, one

guy, he had a daughter

too, about 4 years younger

than me, and a nice enough

wife. I liked them and would

go there for the fun of just

the difference. One thing was,

I noticed  -  when you go

somewhere, like this, it's

imperative just as much as

arriving, that you know when

to leave. Overstaying was

always a killer, and my father

always over-stayed. No

one ever 'threw' him out,

(Praise Jesus anew, for that

would have really been

awkward), but a few times

the length of stay got trying

and uncomfortable. I learned

that lesson quickly, and to

go it one better I later turned

it into a policy of just never

'going' to house things. Neutral

territories are OK; but house

visits at that level, they suck.

-

So, how do you translate

intentions into actions?

I think I'm still working on

that. I read once that, in

translating, this particular,

(by a guy who was a translator

of American crime-fiction

genre into German) constant,

very odd instance of English

into German (which I cannot

vouch for but which sounds

too odd and too suspect for

me) there's no way, into 

German, to translate 

'crossing the legs,' (female) 

into something that's not 

obscene. I'd read that 

somewhere, and it baffled

me. Could it be? And what

was meant by all that anyway?

It sounded like nonsense. It

was a bit of the same way of

trouble I had with trying to

get across ('translate') these

weird little Inman Avenue

Christmas visits between 

otherwise more or less

distant, working-class men.

Upholsterers, gas-station 

owners, truckers, car-shop 

guys. The entire, and always

the same, player-cards and

calendars with risque women

on them, over and over, but

put away for Christmas,

when virginal Mary got to

own the manger? Who was

to say what? And who 

wanted to anyway? Man,

growing up was tough.

-

In 'The Wild Duck,' Ibsen 

has a character state 'If 

you take the life-lie away 

from an average person, 

you take away his happiness 

as well. The stories we 

tell ourselves in order to 

survive, at the cost of 

appraising life honestly;

Life-lies? They have 

many dimensions, ranging 

from Religion (cap R), 

politics, the art of 

diplomacy, a pointless

job, an aimless love 

affair, or a 'tediously 

bright' dinner party. 

The teaching lie, of 

trying to explain something

carefully to, or imparting 

'official' wisdom to, a 

roomful of students who 

couldn't care less. People 

are often just longing

for someone to break 

out and 'say something'  

-  the something that 

would stop the vampiric 

life-lie in its tracks. (Back 

to vampire again; watch 

that pumpkin.)...No! Leave

that pumpkin right there!
We aren't yet past Christmas.